Retribution
by storyfan101
Summary: One of Michael's old contacts shows up and wants to prove a point.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Burn Notice or any of its characters. No money is being made. I'm just attempting to prove a point to a snarky husband, but who still seems willing to read things over when I ask him to.

I would also like to acknowledge a new friend and say "Thanks" to Purdys Pal for a fabulous job of beating away writer's block and a quick turn around with her Beta-ing.

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><p>After the ninth ring, there was the distinctive 'click' of the line being answered.<p>

"Sam!" Michael's phone-free hand flew into the air, "It's about time. I've been trying to reach you all afternoon."

Michael breathed a sigh of relief. When there still was no response from the other end of the phone line, Michael stopped pacing and cautiously asked, "Sam?"

"Hello, Michael. We're sorry we missed your calls, but we were otherwise occupied." The Russian accented voice sounded friendly, but Michael knew better. It's not a good sign when a long ago, foreign contact answers a friend's phone.

"Anatoly. You only had to put in seven years before you earned a week of vacation. Not bad," Michael made his way to the window that looked over the stairs to his front door.

_Throughout life there are millions of voices that you hear, whether as background noise or from direct contact. But there are only a few that you can recognize after years of separation. The voice of friends that are missed and the voice of enemies you never want to hear again. _

Cautiously Michael pulled back the corner of the window covering. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary. He went to the workbench and opened a drawer.

"Are you enjoying your visit to Miami? You should ask Sam to take you to Andrés. They have the best peach mojitos." Silently Michael pulled out his Beretta 92 and checked that it had a full magazine. Making sure the safety was on, he tucked the gun into the waistband of his black suit pants.

"Oh, Michael, that sounds lovely. Too bad our friend is all tied up at the moment," Anatoly laughed at the old joke, but soon changed to serious. "He's not feeling his best right now. But don't you worry; I have some friends that are keeping a close eye on him."

Michael closed his eyes and leaned his head back, making sure to stay calm. Nothing good would come of the Russian knowing exactly what Michael wanted to say or do. "What do you want, Troshev? Sam has no part in our business. You need to let him go."

"On the contrary, Michael, the three of us are very close friends, are we not?" Anatoly Troshev was sounding friendly again. "You remember those fun filled days in Petersburg? You had me believe that Michael Westen was a codename for a team of American Special Forces. You had me prepare for that team to break through the lines of government patrols and into our Defence building's protected files. When all along it was you, Michael Westen, who made your way into the government building and stole top secret documents on the North Caucasus war." Anatoly Troshev had become angrier during his monologue. Michael was picturing the Russian's long face all blotchy and red. Then he heard Anatoly take a deep breath and calm himself down.

Anatoly continued, "I had many years to think of you, Michael. Putin used me as an example. Everyone learned there was a price for their mistakes. I was sent to Siberia. I was in charge of the government railway in Yakutsk. Trust me when I say I had a LOT of time to think of you and your tricks."

"Like I said, Anatoly, this is between you and me. Holding Sam will just get you more trouble than he's worth," Michael grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose. Realizing Anatoly was using Sam's phone, Michael headed to his computer in the upper part of his loft. He opened the program that would triangulate and track the SIM card from Sam's phone.

"You keep saying that Sam has no part in this. You say it with such conviction," Anatoly complemented, but couldn't keep the contempt from his voice when he added, "But as I found out, you are a world class liar!"

Michael hung his head in frustration. He had worked so hard to keep everyone safe, always putting his name out in the open to distract from those around him; all the while building a frightful reputation. Michael knew most jobs required a team to set up the ground work. After Michael finished his government assigned tasks, there would be another team to clean up. Sam Axe had, on several occasions, been with Michael to see that the job got done. Saint Petersburg was one of those times.

Michael couldn't hide his irritation, "What do you want, Anatoly?"

Anatoly laughed. "Not much really. Just for you to finish the job you're already on. But this time…this time, you do it without the support. This time, you do as your reputation says. This time, someone else will see that you are not who you say you are!" He became angrier with each sentence.

Michael watched as his computer screen focused on South Florida. He needed more time for the computer to run its program and for the cell towers to narrow down their scope.

"So you're holding Sam to prove a point? He'd appreciate knowing you think so highly of him. Just ask him, he'll tell you," Michael couldn't help but smile.

"No. He strikes me as the modest, government type," Anatoly replied, his smirk evident through the phone line. "Besides, he's not in much of a talking mood."

This was the third time Anatoly implied that Sam may not be operating with all green lights.

"What have you done to him? If you kill Sam, it won't be my reputation that hunts you down."

It wasn't an idle threat and Anatoly didn't take it as one. "It warms my heart to know that you do have loyalty to more than just your missions, Michael,"

Under different circumstances Anatoly would have enjoyed interrogating Sam Axe, but for his plan to work, the ex-SEAL served a different purpose.

"It seems that Sam had a file of information for you. He was in such a hurry to get it to you that he wasn't paying attention to the road and lost control of his car. Other than a broken wrist and slight concussion, he's fine. He'll stay that way, too, as long as you behave yourself."

Michael knew that Sam didn't lose control of his car. Knowing Anatoly Troshev, Sam had been run off the road. If Anatoly was telling the truth, the accident had to have been bad to incapacitate Sam long enough to be captured.

Michael could easily guess at Anatoly's plan. As a spy working for the government he could count on whole teams of military and government agents to lay groundwork and provide support. Now that he was burned, Sam played the part of all those men, and he played it well.

The information Sam was carrying was the ground work for their current client, Tatiana Brown – née Gouzenko. Tatiana was being stalked by someone who knew of her family's past. Her father had defected to Canada at the end of World War II. As a gift for his new country, he handed evidence of Soviet spies working in many western countries over to the RCMP. It had been the start of the cold war.

Michael was sure it wasn't a coincidence that Anatoly Troshev showed up at the exact time that Tatiana was in Miami. In the spring of 2002, Tatiana had been in Saint Petersburg to bury her aunt - her father's sister. The funeral for an immediate relative of a Soviet defector was the perfect distraction for Michael to gain access to the government building. When all was said and done, Michael had the Soviet documents he was after, he and Sam rescued Tatiana from what would have been a nasty KGB interview, and to top it all off, they had removed themselves from the country without a hitch. Michael counted it among his long list of successful missions. Until now, that is.

The information Sam had gathered would have provided leads on Tatiana's stalker. Now that Anatoly had crawled out of the woodwork, it could just as easily have pointed towards the Russian. Damn, Michael hated this. He needed Sam.

Michael watched as his computer screen narrowed into a section of central Miami. Wynwood. Michael narrowed his eyes at the screen. The fashion district didn't seem the ideal place to hold a captive.

Michael demanded, "How do I know you've got Sam? I want to speak with him."

"I've already told you, Michael. Sam isn't able to come to the phone. But he did let me borrow his Motorola. Maybe on my next call you can have your proof. Until then, don't lose your phone. It's the only number I have."

Michael heard a flutter of motion, then only the quiet background noise of people passing by. Michael guessed that Anatoly had put the phone down and walked away. He must have known that Michael was tracking the call. So why didn't he hang up? Michael looked at his screen. It was showing a stationary red dot on 5th Avenue.

Michael quickly went down the stairs to his workbench. He pulled open a drawer that held an assortment of cell phones. Picking one, he dialed a familiar number.

After three rings it was answered, "Michael, is that you?"

"Fi…"

Fiona interrupted, "Are you joining me for lunch? I could use the break."

"Fi, are you by any chance shopping on Fifth Ave?" Michael was not the type to worry. Not really.

"Of course, Michael," Fiona answered with a lilt of whimsy. "I told you about my favorite shoe store having a sale today. There's this pair of sandals, Michael…"

Michael cut her off, "Fi, I need you to do me a favor. I want you to look around and see if you can spot someone."

Fiona knew by Michael's tone that now wasn't the time to ask questions. There'd be time later, when she would be beside him, and could smack him for being so rude. "Who am I looking for?"

"Anatoly Troshev. He should be in his mid fifties, about six feet tall. He didn't have a lot of hair when I last saw him in '02, so I'm guessing he kept the comb over. And he's probably carrying some extra weight around the middle."

"So a Russian Sam with bad hair?" Fiona couldn't help but pick on the third member of their team; their friendship was so firmly entrenched in active antagonism.

"Fi," Michael warned.

Fiona sat down on one of the brown faux leather bench arrangements that seem prolific throughout all malls. They were handy enough for a quick break, but not comfortable enough to encourage a long stop. Pretending to check her hair in a compact mirror she pulled from her Dolce Gabbana bag, Fiona checked her surroundings. "No one like that here, Michael."

"If I send you some co-ordinates…?" although Michael was concerned for Sam, convincing Fiona to break from her shopping took a careful hand.

"Fine, Michael," Fiona huffed. "But you're paying for half of those sandals out of gratitude."

"Naturally," Michael agreed, and then hastily added, "Be careful."

"Really, Michael?" Fiona, not knowing the cause of Michael's worry, took offense at the implication she couldn't handle herself. Her phone gave a beep, letting her know she had just received a text message.

"Got it, Michael," Fiona picked up her shopping bags and continued down the mall. "I'll call you back when I get there."

"Thanks, Fi,"

Fiona hung up her phone and switched to its GPS app. The coordinates from Michael showed she was very close. She walked around the area but couldn't find anyone answering Troshev's description. She hopped on the escalator heading to the second floor and stepped off in the food court area. Fiona pretended to be looking for a table to sit down as she glanced at all the middle aged men. One thing about shopping malls, they're not a regular hang-out for men past the age of twenty four. There was the odd middle aged man throughout the food court, but none that didn't have bags of various purchases and a woman of similar age sitting with him. It wasn't until Fiona brushed past an empty table that she noticed an envelope simply addressed to 'Michael' leaning against the tri-fold mall brochure that all the tables had. When Fiona picked up the envelope she noticed an open cell phone. It was a black Motorola, just like Sam's.

Tentatively Fiona picked up the phone and quickly surveyed her surroundings one more time. She looked over the glass barrier beside the table. She could see her favourite shoe store on the level below.

"Michael?" Fiona asked.

There was a short pause before she heard Michael's voice, "Fi? Where are you? What did you find?"

"What's going on, Michael?" Fiona felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She didn't like it. Not one bit. "There's an envelope here and I assume it's for you. It says Michael on the front. There's no sign of your Russian friend."

"How soon can you get to the loft?" there was the distinctive sound of weaponry being dumped onto a wooden table coming through the phone. Fiona imagined Michael sorting through and picking the required guns for a job.

"I'll be there before you finish cleaning and loading those weapons." Fiona hung up and headed towards the nearest exit.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to everyone for reading and making me feel so welcome in this fandom.

Another very special "Thanks" to purdys pal for her continued support and beta work. Your gentleness with a pointy stick is appreciated.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

"What's going on, Michael?" Madeline stormed into the loft, her multicoloured knit handbag swinging in time with her quick steps. The slam of the steel door reverberated through the loft.

"Ma…"

Michael attempted to greet his mother, but the storm that was Madeline Westen wasn't about to be calmed. She barged her way up to the work table in Michael's kitchenette and slammed her hand down to further display her anger.

Since calling her earlier in the afternoon, Michael held lingering doubts about involving his mother. No matter which way he sliced it, he counted his team a man short and needed someone to investigate the official channels of Sam's disappearance. Michael needed to maintain a low profile with any police agency and Fiona was working her contacts at the opposite end of the legal spectrum.

"Michael, where is Sam?"

"Ma…"

"And don't you make up some story, Michael. I want the truth," Madeline glared at Michael, silently threatening him if he chose to do anything other than tell her the whole truth.

"Ma…"

"He's my friend too, Michael," Madeline stopped the glare, but she was firm in her decision not to beg.

Michael put down his yogurt and watched her for a moment, waiting, before speaking, "Ma, you shouldn't have come. It's not safe. I told you to call."

"For one of your clients, I'd call. But this is Sam, Michael. And I needed to see your eyes when you explained to me what you all are working on that would possibly lead to the current state of Sam's car."

Fiona had come into the loft during Madeline's comments. "I've talked to my contacts. It's not looking good, Michael. You should tell your mother. You may be asking her to take a trip up north." Fiona stopped in front of Michael and held his gaze. "Or you may need to consider getting us some help, with Sam out of the picture."

Michael frowned at Fiona. She didn't back away and raised an eyebrow as he tried to stare her down. They held a silent argument in which Fiona didn't give an inch. Michael sighed, and turned to his mother, sizing up her capabilities with a glance.

"Stop that. You have something to say, say it so everyone can hear," Madeline admonished, but smirked at Fiona, thanking her for the support.

Michael began by pointing out the dangers, "Fiona, the man had you in his sights at the mall."

Fiona shrugged her indifference, "Michael, if he was going to do something to me, he passed up his best opportunity. He was letting you know that he's aware I'm in your life; probably counting on your protective tendencies to send me away," Fiona winked at Madeline over Michael's shoulder.

"You're welcome to try," Fiona smiled sweetly at Michael, and hefted the carrying handle of the black bag she had come in with higher up her shoulder.

"Oh please," Madeline huffed. "Any idiot would know that touching Fiona would drive you to shoot first and ask questions later, after the coroner's wagon has left." Madeline watched as Fiona smiled up at Michael, while Michael seemed to be counting the tiles in his ceiling.

"This man wants something from you, Michael," Madeline continued. "We all love Sam, but you're not about take down Miami. You're capable of thinking things through."

Madeline was getting all worked up again, "And I really want you to explain why Sam's out of the picture?" She was used to her son and his friends being in trouble, but they always seemed to get out of it relatively unscathed.

"Ma, please?" Michael begged for patience from his mother. He looked at Fiona expectantly. "What did you find out?"

Fiona knew that Michael was giving himself time to decide about his mother, so she decided to answer him, "Your friend, Anatoly Troshev, arrived in Miami three days ago. A private plane dropped him off at Amelia Earhart field and he left in a blacked out SUV... with five of his biggest friends riding shotgun." Fiona dropped the dark carry-all bag at the base of the work table, making Madeline jump from the loud noise.

"Sorry." Fiona smiled apologetically to Madeline before explaining to Michael, "I thought I'd pick up a few things from my north storage shed while I was out that way."

Michael only rolled his eyes, but knew better than to say anything. Chances were Fiona was right about needing the extra fire power.

"Amelia Earhart?" Madeline looked confused. "That old airfield up at Opa-Locka? That's a race track now. "

Fiona smiled, "Sometimes it's still an airfield."

Madeline knew there was no point asking questions about Fiona's friends and how they would know about such things like abandoned air fields still fit enough for occasional use. Instead she looked to her son and reminded him,

"I'm still waiting, Michael. You were about to tell me how Sam's car came to look like it escaped from a wrecking yard."

"First, tell me what you found," Michael requested of his mother. He tried to make it seem an ordinary question by opening his refrigerator and pulling out a yogurt.

Madeline didn't look happy having to wait for her information, but decided that if she sat heavily in the loft's only chair it would be clear to everyone present that she wouldn't be leaving until she had what she wanted. She placed her handbag on the floor beside her and leaned back.

"Fine, Michael. There is a nice officer at the police impound lot who was plenty happy to tell me about the abandoned car they found in Port Miami. He was genuinely pleased to note the owner called in this morning, reporting it stolen." Madeline slapped the arms of the chair as she stood up suddenly. "Sam was at my house this morning, Michael. His car was parked on the street in front of my house!"

Seeing the look of surprise on Fiona's face and Michael having gone so far as to crook an eyebrow and tilt his head; Madeline realized she was yelling. She took a deep breath to calm down and regained her seat in the green chair.

She dutifully continued, "I told that nice officer McMurtrey, that my son-in-law had been called out of town for the birth of his first grandchild and couldn't make it to the impound lot to check on his car. He was kind enough to let me look through the car to take any personal effects as the car was totalled and insurance would be paid out."

Madeline closed her eyes, pausing, "While the officer was distracted by all the blood on the driver's seat, I managed to lift Sam's Glock from the glove box." Madeline held onto her anger by crossing her arms over her chest and waiting for her son to react.

Fiona looked upset by the news, but Madeline couldn't see Michael's face. He had turned to look out the balcony's glass door.

Michael sounded calm enough when he asked, "Was that all you found in the car?"

Madeline watched Michael carefully. He took a deep breath before he turned around to face his mother's answer. Fiona came over and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezed. It was enough for Madeline to nod her head before responding.

"Sam keeps a clean car. There was nothing personal for me to claim," Madeline said with a crooked smile, pulling the Glock out from her knit handbag, "Officially, anyway."

She made a show of putting the gun back into her purse. "But if you're asking about the car itself, the steering wheel had been bent. The whole driver's side of the car was crushed in. I'm willing to bet there wasn't much left of the tree either. There's only one problem, Michael," Madeline sniffed.

"What's that, Ma?" Michael raised his eyebrows, wondering which one problem of the multitude of problems they faced, his mother was stuck on.

Completely undaunted by her son's response, Madeline pointed out, "There are no trees on the docks."


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you to everyone for reading. Especially purdys pal, who's wields the pointy stick of a beta so very well.

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

Madeline didn't like feeling uncomfortable in her own home, but Michael assured her that Tatiana would be safest at his mother's house.

"I know the guestroom isn't very large."

"Oh no," Tatiana waved away the concern. "It's just fine. I even like the colors."

As Madeline poured lemonade for her houseguest, she perceived a certain unruffled elegance about the woman. They were the same age, their birthdays separated by only a few months, yet Tatiana sat in the chair at Madeline's dining table with a straight spine, quietly sipping her iced drink. Even after the whirlwind departure from her home in Coconut Grove, Tatiana's light blue cotton ensemble looked freshly pressed and she appeared unaffected by the move.

"I must thank you for accepting me into your home," Tatiana smiled graciously at Madeline.

"Oh, I'm used to having unexpected company," Madeline explained. She used her left hand to cover up a dark spot on the bottom corner of her blouse. She frowned trying to remember how she had gotten gun oil onto her clothes. Obviously at Michael's loft, but she had been careful while cleaning and loading the double barrel shotgun. Madeline thought she could better hide the blemish from behind the kitchen counter and moved to put the jug of lemonade into the refrigerator.

Madeline sighed, trying to think of normal topics of conversation. "How long have you lived in Miami?"

"Off and on for about five years," Tatiana answered. "I wasn't aware that Michael lived here, but I have to admit, I am very glad to have found him. I would never have made it out of St. Petersburg seven years ago without him and his friend."

"His friend?" Madeline was curious. Michael never told any stories about his time as a spy. Madeline perked up at the possibility of details.

Tatiana smiled wistfully, "Commander Axe. He was a charmer, that one."

"He still is," Madeline made sure to use present tense. "But he just goes by Sam now-a-days."

Tatiana nodded at the correction. "My Bruce reminds me a lot of Sam." Tatiana smiled as Madeline made her way back and sat down in the chair across the table. "I met Bruce at a convention in Toronto, shortly after my return from St. Petersburg. We became close and I joined the other Snowbirds spending the Canadian winters in a warmer climate. By 2004, Bruce was traveling back to Ontario with me for the cooler summers. It's a funny way to live, but we like it. I was closing things up here and getting ready to join Bruce, who's already in Mississauga, when all this stalker business started."

"You and Bruce have been married only a few years then?" Madeline asked

Tatiana blushed, "Oh, we're not married."

Madeline laughed, "Let me get us something a little stronger, and you can tell me all about your time with Sam and Michael in Russia."

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><p>"You're making that hole bigger than you need to, Michael," Fiona commented as she looked up from where she sat on the floor, adjusting the pinhole camera setting to 'motion detect'.<p>

Michael squinted his displeasure at Fiona, but he did stick a finger into the hole he'd drilled into the back of the picture frame, getting a general idea of its size. Taking the miniature wireless LAN camera from Fiona's hands, he slid it into the hole. It fit perfectly. He gave Fiona a toothy smile, but refrained from commenting. His shoulder still ached where Fiona had smacked him earlier in retaliation for a comment about his mother's eagerness to 'lock and load'.

Fiona rolled her eyes. She dusted her hands off on her Christian Dior Capri pants as she stood up. "Well, that's the last one, Michael."

"Now we wait for the stalker to make another appearance," Michael sighed as he hung the picture back on its hook.

He and Fiona had picked Tatiana up and driven her to his mother's house late that afternoon. Tatiana hadn't been thrilled about the move, but had accepted the fact that her house wasn't safe. All of the threatening notes she had received had been found inside her home. It had taken an extra hour of travel time to make sure they weren't followed to Madeline's house and back again. Since returning, Michael and Fiona had set up half a dozen pinhole cameras throughout the main floor of Tatiana's house. They had gone through the second floor, ensuring it was secure against an intruder's entrance. Whoever was leaving the notes, was gaining access without leaving any trace of his entry point.

Fiona walked over to the laptop computer she had set up on a side table. She confirmed each camera was scheduled to send a power notification every hour or if activated, to send pictures taken every three seconds.

_If you're dealing with a client that has only joined this century's communication technology with text messaging, you're going to have to rely on outside access to the internet. Luckily, most Americans are acquainted with the World Wide Web and have wireless routers in their homes. Only twenty five percent of those people will have adjusted the factory settings and turned on the firewall; which means three out of four of your neighbours with a wireless internet connection will have a signal you can piggy-back your transmission on. _

"We're good to go," Fiona smiled and closed the computer. It took only a few more seconds to pack up the cords and adjust the bundle so it could be carried under an arm.

For the hundredth time, Michael wondered about the file of information Sam had already dug up. He hated feeling like he was going over ground already covered by a capable operative. Michael and Fiona had discussed at length the possibilities of Sam's intel from the docks. The buddy in Port Miami with access to the information Michael needed could be the Dock Master or a pretty waitress at one of the many bars in the area. Knowing how thorough Sam was, he probably had notes from both.

"Come on," Michael stuffed the hand drill into the backpack they had brought their equipment in; zipping the bag shut and hoisting one of the straps over his right shoulder. "Maybe your gunrunner friend has more info about Anatoly's black SUV."

"Marcus won't let that information go cheaply, Michael," Fi warned as they headed out the back door. "There'll be a premium charge for his time and the use of one of his boys to follow your Russian friend."

Michael nodded. Damn, but he missed Sam.

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><p>Michael pulled up his shirt collar against the downpour that had started just minutes before they arrived at the meeting spot. He had left the dry confines of Fiona's car to try and get better sight lines through the trees. He wasn't happy with the meeting place in the edge of the Wildlife Management area Fiona drove them to. He became even less happy when Fiona admitted the nature spot off state hi-way 41 was picked by Marcus, the gunrunner. They had already been waiting fifteen minutes and there still was no sign of the man showing up. Michael tried to find within himself the ability to give the benefit of the doubt. After all, the rain was coming down so thick he couldn't even see the satellite antennas from the trailer park they passed on their way into the forested area.<p>

Michael wasn't paranoid, but he knew the snapping twig he just heard didn't come from any of the animals that called the park home. While he couldn't see anyone coming through the rain, Michael wasn't positive the same held true for his visibility to whoever was sneaking through the woods.

After signalling to Fiona, who was sitting warm and dry in her Saab 9-3, Michael crouched low and ran to the trees. Sheets of rain blurred his image as he disappeared behind the thick trunks.

Watching Michael slip away, Fiona pulled out her SIG 228 from her waistband and popped the magazine, checking it was full before sliding it back into place. She debated providing Michael with back-up, but the visibility was no more than a few metres and she couldn't be sure which way he went. Michael was a big boy, and besides, the rain would ruin her Prada sandals.

Fiona stared through the windshield at the spot she had last seen Michael. A knock on the window beside her, made her jump. The rain was starting to let up, but still, all Fiona could focus on was the barrel of another SIG, this one pointed at her nose.

Fiona rolled down her window to address the dark coloured mass behind the gun, "Yes?"

A round face slowly lowered into her view. Fiona tried not to recoil from the scarred features that belonged to the large man in black as he leered at her. Lord, but she preferred the gun.

"Miss Glenanne?" the man asked. "Mister Almudena would like you to join him in his vehicle."

Fiona sighed, "Couldn't Marcus have just walked with you here?"

The bruiser of a man smiled, showing uneven teeth, "He's rather insistent." He pulled on the car handle and opened the door, exposing Fiona to the elements.

It wasn't cold, just very wet. This was Miami, after all. Fiona pulled on her rain coat, stuffed her SIG into the right hand pocket, and exited from the car. She promptly stepped into a two inch deep puddle. Fiona closed her eyes to the injustice of it all and followed Igor, as she had decided to name the brute of a man, down the rocky trail away from the dry comforts of her car.

They rounded a bend in the road and two hundred metres of sidestepping puddles brought them to Marcus' navy blue Escalade. Fiona noticed that Igor still had his weapon out as he waved with it, directing her to stand in front of the vehicle.

"I'm going to enjoy this," Igor said as he made to pat Fiona down.

"Me, too," Fiona replied. She drove her knee into Igor's groin. As the big man instinctively doubled over, off-balance, Fiona grabbed him, tugged, and spun; using the giant's momentum to drive him head first into the Caddy's grill. He fell to the muddy ground.

"Was it as good for you as it was for me?" Fiona asked, but got no reply. Igor was out for the count.

"Guess not," she sauntered around to the back passenger door and pulled it open.

Fiona was greeted by a gun held by a Columbian man. Everything about him was dark: his hair, his eyes, his skin colour, but especially the look on his face.

"Hello, Marcus," Fiona acknowledged the gun runner and when she noticed another body guard on his left side, she added, "And friend."

"Fiona," Marcus replied without shifting the aim of his Browning 9mm away from her chest.

"What is this about, Marcus?" Fiona asked, putting her hands in her coat pockets, affecting a casual stance.

Marcus smiled, "I believe we agreed upon the sum of five thousand dollars for the exchange of information, did we not?"

"Why do I get the feeling that information no longer includes the location of a visiting Russian agent?" Fiona asked, watching the body guard as his right hand reached inside his jacket.

Marcus smiled and shrugged. "You've always been a smart girl. Too smart, really. That's only one of the many reasons I've decided take you out of the picture. In the long run, your clients – soon to be my clients – will bring me so much more than that five thousand."

The opening of the rear driver's side door completely surprised the Columbian gunrunner. The sight of the bodyguard being hit in the neck with a quick jab of Michael's straight fingers and then bodily pulled out from the vehicle, barely registered before Marcus could turn in his seat and bring his weapon around to aim at his new opponent.

Before Marcus could utter a threat, he was stopped by Fiona holding her gun against his right cheek.

"I'll take that," Fiona smiled as she took the semi-automatic out of Marcus' hand. Looking over at Michael, she couldn't resist adding, "Took you long enough."

Michael looked Fiona over, checking for damage. Seeing none, he shrugged, "I had to take out the two in the back-up car, first."

Fiona leaned back. The rain had let up enough now that she could see another Escalade parked fifty meters behind Marcus. She tossed her wet hair over her shoulder, "Thanks."

Michael smiled, "Anything for you." Fiona smiled back.

Pushing her SIG harder into Marcus' cheek, "You were about to tell us about the Russian."

Marcus raised his hands and attempted to nod, but the gun barrel in his cheek pulled his skin so he stopped. "I'll tell you everything."

Fifteen minutes later Marcus and his men had their hands cable-tied and their mouths gagged. 911 had an anonymous call about suspicious goings-on in the Wildlife conservation area near Krome Avenue and Hi-way 41.

Fiona and Michael made their way back to their car.

"You drive," Fiona tossed the car keys over to Michael.

"You okay?" he asked with concern.

"No, Michael," Fiona whined, stopping at the passenger door. "They ruined my new shoes."

"I'm sorry, Fi," Michael said with relief. "I'll buy you a new pair when this is all over." Michael opened the door and slid into the driver's seat.

Fiona sighed. She would never admit it to another living soul, but whining without earning a snarky reply just wasn't any fun. She missed Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you to everyone for reading.

Special thanks to purdys pal. Even amidst writing your own story and real life goings on, you found time to give me a hand.

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><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

The crashing of the lamp against the wall drew Anatoly's attention away from the seething man across the room.

"Feel better?" Anatoly asked calmly, turning back to keep a wary eye on the man who was now close to hyperventilating.

"No! I do not feel better!" the man ran a shaky hand through his thinning hair. He managed to take some deep breaths and bring his emotions somewhat under control. The man turned to the dented bureau behind him, reaching for an open pack of cigarettes. With one hand he shook a smoke out and put it between his lips while the other hand skittered from one pocket to the next of his city uniform coveralls until he found the bulge that became a Bic lighter. After three failed attempts to flick a spark into a flame, he angrily threw the lighter the same direction as the lamp.

"Damn it!" he bellowed.

"Calm down," Anatoly walked towards the man, pulling his own lighter from his suit pocket and instantly had a flame ready under the dangling cigarette. The man sucked on his cigarette, pulling the calming nicotine into his lungs.

After several puffs, the man moved to sit on the edge of the sagging twin bed. He waved the cigarette in Anatoly's direction, "You come here with more papers, telling me to wait. The woman should be dead, her grandchildren crying over her grave. Then I could leave this place." He gestured again, sneering at the drab, grey room around them.

"This place, yes it's ugly and loud people fill the hallways," Anatoly shrugged one shoulder. "But your grandfather," he paused for emphasis,"he would have been happy to have such luxuries, no?"

The man hung his head, sniffing with shame. "My grandfather, he was a good man. He did not deserve to be sent to prison."

Anatoly nodded. He found it difficult not to laugh at the blubbering man. Had his grandfather been a Canadian spy caught in Russia, he would not have survived thirty days, much less thirty years. Anatoly had a hard time understanding how Canada managed to remain a free country with such a lackadaisical justice system.

"You were named after your grandfather, were you not?" Anatoly kept his voice calm and quiet. He hated this coddling, necessary though it was. He wanted to hit the man, yell at him, anything to stop the snivelling.

"Yes," the man nodded vigorously. "But when the newspapers reported on his death, so close to his prison release date, all the people we thought were friends, turned on us. My father couldn't handle the stigma of being the son of a Russian spy and killed himself. My mother changed our name and I became Peter Brayson. But in here," Peter pounded on his chest, over his heart, "In here, I am still Pyotr Brabovich."

Anatoly almost sighed with relief. It had been a close call, but he knew he had managed to keep Peter from rushing out and finishing his job prematurely. "So you agree? The Gouzenko woman should be made to pay for every moment your grandfather wasted in prison? Good! You have fear on your side; and soon you will have her begging for your forgiveness with tears running down her face, yes?"

"Yes!" Peter smiled and slapped his hands on his knees with enthusiasm. "I will follow your plan, and when the time is right and she is begging for me to let her go, I will show the same regard as her father gave that file of names, and end her life."

Anatoly nodded his approval. "I'll let you know when the time is right, and then you can finish what the Gouzenko family started. Soon, you can return to Canada and hold your head up high."

Peter Brayson wiped his arm across his teary eyes, "You have helped me get close to the traitor's daughter. This janitor's job," Peter pulled at the arm of his uniform distastefully, "has allowed me access to city computers when I work at night. I would never have known how to look for Tatiana Gouzenko without your help. I will do as you say." Peter smiled gratefully at Anatoly.

Anatoly moved to the slum apartment's door, glad to be leaving.

"I know you will," Anatoly said softly as he closed the door behind him. He looked forward to the time he would be rid of this mental case.

* * *

><p>Anatoly took his eyes off the road ahead long enough to flip open his ringing cell phone.<p>

"What?" he barked out.

"You were right, sir," the unctuous and gravelly voice replied. "Westen showed up at the warehouse on the docks."

"He didn't see you, Fyodor? Any of you?" Anatoly asked.

"No, sir. We were several blocks away, watching through the security camera feed."

After stopping for a red light, Anatoly excitedly switched his cell phone to his left hand, "What did he do?"

"He wasn't happy with what he found, that's for sure," Fyodor sounded excited too. He was revelling in the knowledge that he had information his boss wanted to hear.

"Tell me, damn it!" impatient and momentarily blinded by his anger, Anatoly almost jumped the light. The pedestrian in the crosswalk yelled an obscenity and held out his middle finger. Anatoly waved the annoying man on, turning his attention back to his phone call, "Tell me exactly what Michael Westen did."

"He came into the warehouse alone, just like you said he would," Fyodor quickly reported.

"Yes, yes. Then what?" Anatoly was impatient for details.

"He found the rags from his friend's bloody shirt and the cut ropes we used to keep that loud mouthed baboon still," Fyodor snickered. "He held onto them as he searched in every corner. He found nothing and became very angry. He threw that precious treasure we had left for him across the warehouse."

Anatoly laughed. He felt better than he had all day, "Good. Good work, Fyodor," he happily moved along with traffic when the light changed to green. "We have upset our spy friend. We left nothing else for him to find at the warehouse. So after he wasted his time with a fruitless search, where did he go?"

There was an uncomfortable pause over the phone line. Anatoly grew angry again, "You were supposed to follow him."

"Yes, sir," the Fyodor begged for understanding. "Anton, he tried, sir. But after five blocks a pretty girl in a black convertible cut him off and… sorry sir, but Anton lost Westen."

Anatoly smacked the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, "Glenanne! I warned you he may keep her close, protecting her."

"Would this not be a case of her protecting him, sir?"

"I warned you the girl might be involved!" spittle gathered in the corners of Anatoly's mouth. He rubbed at the headache starting to grow behind his right eye. "I am almost at the house now. I want to see the footage of Westen at the warehouse for myself."

"You are almost back? This is good," Fyodor sounded relieved. "Nicolai, he does not like the American. He never shuts up and is driving Nicolai crazy. And Sergei, he refuses to be left with the man."

Anatoly did not usually suffer fools for long. However, he did not have legions of good, trustworthy men to choose from. He had five; five low paid men whom he had smuggled into the US in the belly of a freighter.

"Tell Nicolai to put tape over the pain in the ass' mouth," Anatoly sighed.

Sam Axe was difficult. He would not answer the simplest of questions without a snide remark, he laughed at things that weren't funny, and every ten minutes he demanded to be given a beer. At first the Russians thought it was the result of the concussion, but even after they tried using Sam's broken wrist as a means to tame him, Sam only became louder in his desire for an ice cold beer to bring down the swelling. Anatoly had to agree with Michael Westen on one thing, holding Sam Axe was not worth the trouble.

* * *

><p>"Michael," Fiona's voice sounded slightly garbled through the speaker phone of his cell.<p>

"Yes, Fiona?" distracted, Michael drove his Charger around the corner faster than he intended. His cell phone started sliding across the passenger seat from the momentum. He grabbed for it and caught it before it could slide down the far side of the seat. The interruption caused his left hand to give the steering wheel a slight wiggle, not much, but enough that Fiona in the car behind noticed.

"You need to invest in Bluetooth, Michael."

"I'll get right on that. Thank you," Michael looked at the dash of his car. There was no place to set the phone down where it wouldn't continue to slide away from him. He was forced to hold onto it and use the back of his hand as a guide for the steering wheel.

"Yes, I'm sure you will. But that's not why I called," Michael was sure if he looked in his rear view mirror he would see Fiona laughing at him. He made a point of not looking.

"Enlighten me, Fi," Michael changed lanes without any incident.

"How sure are you that your friend Anatoly will send someone into the warehouse to check on your little message?"

"If he can't do it himself, he'll send someone, Fi," Michael was confident of that. "He's been in a frozen wasteland for seven years planning his revenge. He'll need to know what I left for him."

"Well then, shouldn't we be heading back to the warehouse? We lost our tail over thirty minutes ago. That was the only place Marcus' guy had time to follow Troshev's vehicle to. We don't want to miss our one opportunity to follow the Russians back to Sam."

"We're already on our way," Michael closed his phone and dropped it into his suit jacket pocket. His right foot dropped down onto the gas pedal. There was a growl as 375 horsepower came to bear; the vehicle surged forward, racing around yet another corner. This time there was no wavering; the black car held its line and only picked up speed as Michael drove back to the warehouse at the docks.


	5. Chapter 5

A big Thank You to everyone for your continued support and sticking with my story.

Purdys pal, I can't tell you how much I appreciate your time and beta comments for each of these chapters so far.

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><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

"How did you **not** see what he was doing?" Anatoly screamed at his minions.

He had just returned to the quiet neighbourhood where he rented a house. Before leaving Russia, he used a network of connections to arrange the rental, and he was confident that Michael, on his own, would never have the resources, or the time it would take to discover the address. The quaint three room bungalow sat off the street with a well kept yard that wouldn't draw any attention from the neighbours.

Anatoly was in the living room with four of his minions watching the video of Michael searching the warehouse; Anton had offered to take guard duty to avoid Anatoly's wrath at his failure to follow Westen. Anatoly had been pleased when Fyodor first started the playback, but when he realized Michael wasn't truly searching the building, he lost his smile. Anatoly watched as Michael's movements seemed to be testing the limits of the cameras. When Anatoly saw him add something to the ball of fabric that had been Sam Axe's shirt and throw it into a corner, out of view of the cameras, he knew Michael had been prepared for what he might find, or wouldn't find, at the warehouse. The smirk Michael gave the camera before leaving the building only twisted the proverbial knife Anatoly felt in his chest.

"He did nothing," Sergei said, shrugging and trying to wave away Anatoly's anger. "There was nothing he could do. Not even the super spy could have known we had moved that…" Sergei swore a vile name in Russian. He despised the American they held hostage.

Anatoly's anger only grew at the incompetence of his men. He fairly frothed at the mouth when he shouted at Sergei, "YOU will be the one to go back to the warehouse and see what little gift Michael Westen has left behind. For your sake, you had better pray it is not a bomb!"

Sergei was smart enough not to respond. He grabbed his coat from the back of a chair and stomped sullenly toward the front door.

Anatoly grabbed a manila envelope from the drawer of a small table near the door. He smacked Sergei on the back of the shoulder, handing him the envelope. "You know where to take this. It is time to put Mr. Westen to work."

Anatoly turned to the remaining two men, "Come. Your abilities are falling far short of the reputations on which I was promised back in Russia." He headed down the hallway, stopping in front of a room at the back of the house. With his hand on the door knob, Anatoly sneered at the men behind him, "Until Sergei returns maybe you can prove yourselves useful by getting some actual answers from our guest."

* * *

><p>Michael and Fiona had their vehicles parked in an alley, half a block away and across the road from Troshev's warehouse. They had been chatting about their plan when they noticed a Buick LaCrosse pull up in front of the building. Fiona crept back to her vehicle, just behind Michael's. Only fifteen minutes later the Russian came back out of the warehouse, empty handed, red faced with rage. He slammed the LaCrosse's door much too hard as he got back in. Both Michael and Fiona had started their cars, preparing to follow, when Michael's cell phone rang.<p>

Michael answered it after the second ring.

"That was not a very nice gift you left, Michael," Anatoly growled through the phone line.

"I thought you might be feeling a little homesick," Michael answered. He turned to wave at Fiona in the car behind his. "You don't know how hard it was to get my hands on that tourist brochure of Yakutsk. You should at least appreciate the thought."

Fiona pulled her Saab alongside Michael's Charger. Michael made a large gesture towards his phone and waved Fiona on to follow the man in the Buick. Fiona nodded her head and pulled out of the alley.

"Someone has to pay, Michael. Someone always has to pay," Anatoly must have held his phone away from him and closer to the people in the background because their noises suddenly became much more clear to Michael.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Sam's voice, sounding slightly off, could be heard. Rustling sounds came through the line. Then came the sound Michael dreaded hearing, but he knew this was what the phone call was truly about; the sound of Sam screaming with pain. Michael could make out the ragged breathing of someone struggling to bring their emotions under control, then Sam's voice again, "You son of a …." There was a loud slap not allowing Sam to finish his sentiments. More deep breathing before Sam's gravelly voice managed, "You owe me a drink for that. And none of your piss poor vodka. I want a beer, God damn it!"

Had Sam known he was being broadcast through the phone lines, Michael knew he would have said something about his situation, made some attempt at passing along information. As it was, Michael could tell that Sam was holding up as well as could be expected and making the Russians regret the day they ever pulled him from his car. Michael could have smiled and thanked heaven above for a friend like Sam.

"You have your proof your friend is still alive, Michael," Anatoly came back on the line. Michael could no longer hear voices in the background. Anatoly must have left the room Sam was in, removing the possibility of a message being passed along.

"However," Anatoly continued, "you do something foolish like that again, and who's to say what condition he will be in?"

Michael squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus, to remain calm and cool. He considered it a blessing that the Russian chose that moment to hang up the call. After a moment, he was able to drive out of the alley and follow in the direction Fiona had gone.

Taking a calming breath, he dialled Fiona. She answered on the first ring, "I can't believe you were taking calls while on a mission, Michael."

"It was Anatoly, Fi. He wasn't happy with my gift, but he did provide proof that Sam's still alive," Michael explained.

"Good, this little jaunt won't be for nothing then," Fiona paused, Michael assumed she was checking her surroundings because only a few seconds later she resumed, "We're approaching the exit for the Causeway heading east. You should be able to catch up." Fiona paused again before tentatively asking, "How is Sam?"

"I think the Russians enjoy talking to Sam as much as Sam has enjoyed talking to them in the past."

After some thought, Fiona commented, "Sam has a weird relationship with Russians, Michael."

"Very similar to you and Columbian gunrunners," Michael remarked with a barely contained smirk.

Through some mild speeding and minor amounts of road hogging Michael had almost reached the exit to the expressway.

"Where are you?" he asked

"We're still heading east, toward the airport. The exit for I-95 will be coming up soon," Fiona answered.

"I'll be there in a minute," Michael and Fiona continued to share directions until they were separated by only a few cars. They followed the Russian minion off the Expressway and into Overtown. The Russian parked at the side of a dilapidated apartment building. He carried a manila envelope with him as he jogged up the front stairs and through the doors. Michael and Fiona followed him at a distance.

They stood behind a graffiti covered pillar and watched as the large Russian pushed at the elevator call button. They remained hidden as he cursed when he flipped over an 'Elevator Out Of Service' notice. The Russian stomped off to the stairwell, wrenched the door open and stormed up the stairs.

"I'll follow him up," Michael said and pointed Fiona towards the front doors, "you stay here and watch my back." Michael took two steps after the Russian before turning back to Fiona, "Be careful."

Fiona tossed her hair over shoulder, "Maybe you should warn everyone else to stay out of my way." She sashayed closer to the front door. Michael knew she would take care of herself.

Michael followed the Russian at a respectful distance up the stairs. He heard the stairwell door close up ahead on the third floor. Michael listened for further footsteps heading up, when he heard none, he quickened his pace. He carefully pulled the door open, standing to the side to look through before stepping out. He was just in time to catch sight of the Russian making his way through another doorway at the far end of the hall. A burned out exit sign hanging loosely above the door frame explained where he was going. Michael couldn't see the envelope in his hands any longer. Somewhere down this hall, the Russian had made a drop. Michael pulled out his cell phone and called Fiona as he slowly made his way down the grey hallway.

Fiona didn't have the chance to say anything before Michael voiced his warning, "He's dropped the envelope, Fi. Our Russian guy is heading down the back stairs. I think this may have been an errand. I don't think this is where they have Sam."

Michael heard Fiona mutter a quiet, "Damn," before he closed his phone. There were a number of apartments that voices could be heard through the thin walls. Michael assumed any apartment he could hear children or the crying of babies, wasn't the one he was looking for. That still left too many others as possibilities. He had no way to tell under which door the Russian had slid the package.

Michael rushed toward the back stairs. He flung the door wide, almost ripping it from its worn hinges. He no longer worried about being quiet. He needed to catch the Russian to get some much needed answers.

The stairwell ended in a hallway. One way led to the back exit, the other way would return Michael to the front of the building. Knowing Fiona was at the front, Michael went to the back. He carefully opened the door and peered out. He heard nothing suspicious. Opening the door fully, Michael saw the back parking lot. He did not see anyone moving. Knowing he needed to go out and check, but not wanting to be locked out, Michael quickly located the wedge of wood that lies near the back door of every apartment building ever built anywhere in the world, and jammed it under the door. Slowly and methodically, Michael searched the half filled rows of parked cars. He found nothing and no one. He headed back into the building. He was about to call Fiona when she appeared in the hallway before him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

Fiona frowned, "You were taking so long, I came to investigate. Where is he, Michael?"

"He didn't go out the back door, Fi. Didn't he come past you?"

Fiona shook her head. They headed toward the lobby of the building. There were a few social outcasts standing around. Fiona walked up to the nearest one.

"Excuse me, did you happen to see a large man wearing a red t-shirt go through here? We went up to his apartment to meet him, but he must have come down to find us and we missed each other," Fiona gave a friendly smile to the downtrodden man.

He couldn't help himself but to smile back at the friendly lady, "No. But if he doesn't have a parking space out back, he probably went through the fire exit in the laundry room to the free parking at the side of the building." The man pointed back down the hallway Fiona and Michael had just come from.

Michael raced back the way they had come. Fiona took a moment to wave her thank you to the man before rushing to catch up. The laundry room was marked by a loose sheet of paper labelled 'laundry' that had once been taped to the door, but now sat on the floor leaning against the baseboards. She found Michael standing in the open outer doorway. She looked past him to the street beyond. The red Buick LaCrosse was gone.

"We lost him, Fi."

Fiona knew he meant they had lost more than just the Russian they were following. Michael sounded defeated and she hated it.


	6. Chapter 6

My continued thanks to everyone reading. You rock my world.

Special thanks to purdys pal. Even when you're down, you're not out. You're a great Beta.

**Chapter 6**

"Well, where is he, Michael?" Madeline looked out her front door. Michael and Fiona had just returned from the warehouse; both failing miserably to hide their disappointment over the operation. Tatiana watched the pair as they crossed the front room to join her at the table.

Tatiana took the bottle of Captain Morgan's, still sitting out from yesterday's visit down memory lane, and poured a jigger's worth of rum. Fiona reached right past the offered glass and went straight for the bottle. She closed her eyes as the liquid burned its way down her throat then put the bottle down in front of Michael who seemed to be staring at something five feet beyond Tatiana's chair.

Madeline slammed her front door shut and with hands on her hips demanded to know, "Where is Sam?"

"Troshev's man didn't lead us to him," Fiona grumbled, using the back of her hand to rub the rum from her lips. "We followed the guy to a paper drop and then we lost him," Fiona couldn't bring herself to look at Madeline, replying instead to the smiling pirate on the front of the bottle.

Madeline's face fell at Fiona's news, "What do we do now?"

"**We** don't do anything, Ma," Michael pulled his thoughts back from wherever it was he had been. He got up and went to his mother, putting his hands on her shoulders. "These are dangerous men and I need you to stay safe." He gestured back to the table, "To keep Tatiana safe."

Madeline wasn't about to let Michael patronize her and she was far from placated. "And every other foreign agent that has come gunning for you has been what? A walk in the park?" Madeline pushed past her son and stood next to her kitchen table looking for support from others in the room.

"Tatiana, do you want to take a long, miserable ride in an overly hot car to Orlando to face crowds of loud, annoying children? Or would you rather wait things out right here in this air conditioned house and be available to help when it's needed?" Madeline took a long pull from her cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly.

"Pardon me?" Tatiana was having a hard time following what was going on.

"Michael's proposing a trip to Disney World," Madeline gave a quick glare in her son's direction, "As Sam has had to explain to me in the past, it's a magical kingdom with lots of witnesses and great security."

Tatiana's eyebrows went up in understanding. She looked at the people around her. All she knew about Michael was from faded memories based on an adventure seven years ago; and she didn't really know Fiona at all. However, she and Madeline had quite the talk the night before as they waited for word on what was happening. It was obvious Michael was in charge of carrying out whatever plan was devised, but Madeline seemed to have some say in what qualified as a safe distance for spectators.

"As appealing as those travel plans sound," Tatiana smiled at Madeline before looking to Michael, "I think I could be of more use closer to home."

Madeline grinned her approval and put a hand on Tatiana's shoulder, uniting their stand.

"Ma, the man is trying to prove that one man," he looked into his mother's eyes and was somewhat surprised that she held his gaze, "that not even Michael Westen," he closed his eyes as he paused, "that _**I**_ can't take on the Russian government or even help an old friend without a team."

Madeline sighed, "Is that what this is all about?"

She walked to her son and gave him a gentle squeeze on his arm. "I'm your mother. I've been on team Westen longer than anyone."

Tatiana got up and stood beside Madeline. "I am a Gouzenko and we also have our ways. I did not get to be my age without teaching some bad people a thing or two." She put her arm around Madeline's shoulders. "Together, we are a force to be reckoned with."

Fiona came to stand in front of Michael. "You haven't lost your team, Michael." She turned to look at the two older women beside her, "I think we're a pretty good team. Probably the best you've ever had."

Michael gave a small smile. Fiona knew it was the best she was going to get so she continued, "We might be a man down, but we are far from out."

Michael's cell phone beeped, sparing him from coming up with a verbal response to the emotional scene in front of him. He pulled the phone from his suit jacket pocket and turned away from the women in his mother's house. His brows dipped with curiosity before he recognized the incoming e-mail address.

"Fi, it's the cameras at Tatiana's house," Michael opened the mail to see pictures of Tatiana's living room and a man dressed in dark coveralls in the act of slicing the sofa with a knife.

Fiona came and stood behind Michael, peering around his shoulders, trying to get a look at the pictures. She grabbed his hand that held the device and pulled it closer.

"Michael, he's making a mess," Fiona sounded confused. Previously, the stalker had only moved things around and left a note with his threatening message in an obvious spot. "Why is he attacking that perfectly harmless piece of furniture?"

Michael forfeited his phone to Fiona, grabbing his car key from where he had left it on the kitchen table, "Come on, Fi. If we hurry we might be able to catch him."

Fiona was still forwarding through all the incoming pictures. She paused on one and frowned. Finally she looked up from the pictures on the phone and smiled, "Oh there's no rush, Michael. It's too late to save that lovely sofa."

"Fi!" Michael had been moved by the words of a moment ago, but this was work. He already had the front door open and was ready to rush out.

"Honestly, Michael, the bastard will be half way home before we get anywhere close to Coconut Grove." For a woman pointing out that they were on the losing end of things _again,_ Fiona sounded awfully pleased.

Michael realized that Fiona had seen something in the pictures. He took the time to close the door and step back into his mother's front room. "What is it, Fi?"

Fiona held the cell phone toward Michael, a clear picture of Tatiana's stalker as he was walking towards one of the hidden cameras.

There was a glint in Fiona's eye and an impish grin on her lips, "I know where he lives, and we're much closer to Overtown than he is."

* * *

><p>Michael and Fiona were watching the front doors of the dilapidated building they had followed Troshev's man to earlier that day. They had parked the charger a block away and were now leaning against another broken down building across the street.<p>

"You're sure about this, Fi?" Michael asked, looking over the top of the newspaper he was pretending to read.

Fiona couldn't bring herself to answer such a question with actual words. She pulled up her Burberry sunglasses and looked at Michael in such a way that questioned the man's sanity.

"If you're right about having seen this guy coming in with groceries…," Michael paused when he noticed Fiona squinting at him. He resisted the urge to cover the vulnerable spots on his body. Instead he cleared his throat and started again, "He's had more than enough time to make it back from destroying Tatiana's living room."

Fiona lowered her sunglasses back into place and shrugged. "I only know I recognized him from this afternoon, Michael. He was carrying a bag of groceries and a handful of mail. He lives here. I never claimed to know the man's itinerary."

Michael looked at the building across the street before returning his gaze to Fiona. She hadn't bothered to hide behind a magazine or newspaper. Even in her casual stance of leaning against the building, there was no disguising Fiona. She radiated sex appeal.

"Why don't you go see if you can find someone who does," Michael held out his phone with the picture of the man they were looking for staring back from the screen.

None too gently and with a rather audible "hmph", Fiona took Michael's phone and headed across the street. Michael couldn't help but watch Fiona's retreating figure, knowing the unsuspecting men in the building across the street would offer up the stalker's social security number if it meant they'd have something to talk to Fiona about.

Twelve minutes later, Fiona stood on the front steps, waving Michael over.

Michael jogged across the street and up the stairs, "What did you get?"

Fiona just smiled, swirling a key ring holding a single key about her finger. "He lives in apartment 316, this is the building manager's master key."

Michael raised one eyebrow, "You convinced the manager to give you that key?"

"I'm sure he would have lent it to me had I asked, but he seemed busy at that moment settling a very loud dispute between two lovely gentlemen arguing over who had the bigger biceps."

"Which you started," Michael said.

Fiona shrugged indifferently. "They were done telling me that Peter," Fiona held up Michael's phone, indicating she was talking about the man in Tatiana's living room, "works nights as a janitor at city hall. He left early for his shift tonight."

"Of course he did. He had to fit in the wanton destruction of a sofa without making himself late," Michael could hear men's voices from inside the building becoming louder as they moved closer to the entrance. He gently grabbed onto Fiona's elbow and quickly pulled her along as he went down the stairs. They made it across the street and down the block without anyone noticing them.

Before opening the driver's door, Michael put his arms on the roof and leaned toward Fiona, "You still hide a block or two of C-4 at my mom's?"

"No, Michael. Not since you said you didn't want your mother around such dangerous things."

"Fi?" Michael asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, all right Michael," Fiona tried to put some exasperation into her voice, "Three or four blocks. But I left it there only after I received your mother's promise not to use any of it to take out the mice in her yard."

Michael stopped himself from rolling his eyes, but gave Fiona a knowing smile, "I've got a plan."

* * *

><p>Peter Brayson yawned as he reached into his uniform pockets, pulling out his keys. It had been a long shift. He couldn't bring himself to focus on his work. His mind kept reliving the evening destroying the Gouzenko woman's home which, of course, led to fantasies of how he was going to finish her off. He was so preoccupied that he accidentally knocked over the mop's water bucket causing a small lake to form in the middle of city hall's lobby. It took Peter an extra thirty minutes beyond his shift to clean up that mess and still get done his regular duties.<p>

Now that he was almost home, Peter was looking forward to a good sleep before he continued with the plans for the traitor's daughter. As he walked towards his apartment on the third floor he could hear a baby's cry from the apartment 314. He could only hope the mother would take the baby out for a stroll today or he would never get any sleep.

The scrawny fellow from apartment 315 appeared to be on his way out. He had a scantily clad lady of the evening holding onto his arm and the two of them were weaving their way down the hallway. They laughed uproariously each time one of them thumped into a wall before reaching the stairwell exit.

Peter sighed as he finally reached his own door and turned the key in the lock. As usual, it stuck and he had to jiggle the handle until the lock clicked open. Peter could hardly wait until he could go back to his real home. He missed his apartment back in Canada.

Peter closed the door behind him and reached along the wall for the light switch. His hand never made it that far. Instead his arm was grabbed and twisted behind his back. He was forcibly shoved into the main room of his apartment. He tripped and fell face forward onto the threadbare carpet. In a daze he lay there, confused by what was happening. In a moment his arms were pulled behind him and he was physically hoisted up off the floor. By the time he sorted out that he was standing again, he was being pushed down into the only chair in his apartment.

"What's going on?" Peter was finally able to see his attacker with the early morning light coming through the grimy windows, "Who are you?"

"I'm Michael Westen and you're going to answer some of my questions."

Peter gulped. He could hear someone else in his apartment behind this man, Westen. A petite woman stepped into view. She had a grey, claylike substance in one hand and a jumble of wires in the other. She stuck a wire end into the clay and its opposite end into a timer. Westen stepped behind Peter and tied him tightly to the chair.

The woman smiled at Peter, "I'm just along for the ride." She held out the now assembled bomb for Peter to see clearly. The timer was set for 5 minutes. "Oh, and if I don't like any of your answers, I'm also in charge of blowing you up."


	7. Chapter 7

My usual thanks to everyone for reading. You're all awesome.

Purdys pal, thanks again for sticking with me and Beta-ing this story.

**Disclaimer:** Yury Anisimov and Viktor Milchenko are actual people who really work(ed) for Russia's Investigation Directorate. I am using them in a complete fictitious story and only because I seem unable to make up my own Russian names. While I'm at this disclaiming business, I will add that while Igor Gouzenko was a real Russian GRU agent in the cipher department who did in fact defect to Canada, I do not know the names of his children and have made up Tatiana because it suited my story needs. You all know that I have no claim to Burn Notice, so on with the story…

**Chapter** 7

Anatoly sipped his morning coffee as he read the newspaper. He was feeling good about his future plans. The silly Brabovich man had called before his janitorial shift saying that he had stepped up his attack. Anatoly wanted Michael to have to pick up his pace to ensure the Gouzenko woman's safety. Ha! Like Westen knew where the attacks were coming from. For the Russians, holding Sam Axe was an inconvenience; but at least, it caused an even greater inconvenience for Michael Westen. And perhaps the best thing about last night: Sam Axe had passed out before midnight. As long as he stayed out, the Russians were happy to let him be and get some rest too.

Anatoly sighed, feeling more content than he had since leaving Yakutsk. So when his cell phone started vibrating its way across the table it was with some concern that he grabbed it up and checked the incoming phone number.

"Stupid Canadian. What does he want now?" he muttered before acknowledging the call with a growly "Hello Pyotr."

"Enjoying your breakfast, Anatoly?" greeted a familiar voice that most definitely wasn't Peter's.

It was with some trepidation that Anatoly glanced around the kitchen and double checked the room's blinds were still drawn. Subconsciously he sighed with relief as he realized he was still alone.

"Westen," any remains of Anatoly's good mood were completely washed away as he acknowledged his caller. "Mz. Gouzenko must be pleased with your work results."

"That's hard to say. I'm not finished yet."

Anatoly's eyebrows went up in mild surprise. "You haven't resolved her problem then?"

"She didn't have much of a problem to resolve."

Anatoly shrugged, "Oh, I don't know. I have a feeling you intervened just before things became interesting."

He was curious about Michael's plan. "But you say you are still not finished?"

"The stalker problem is finished. But I am far from finished with you." It was almost feral, the words Michael growled through the phone line. "You took someone from me and I want him back."

Anatoly could picture the look on Westen's face, secretly glad he wasn't there personally to see it. Still he smiled as he asked, "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about?"

"You will trade me Sam Axe for your friend, Peter Brayson"

Anatoly almost laughed at that. "What would I want with that pathetic being? He's not right in the mind, you know? He talks about all sorts of crazy things."

"You know what's remarkable?" Michael didn't wait for Anatoly to come up with an answer, "Most Russian agents and I don't get along."

Anatoly gave a quick laugh, "I can't imagine why."

Michael continued, "Be that as it may, that's not what's truly remarkable. What's truly remarkable is I still have the contact numbers for some old Russian friends – you may remember them: Yury Anisimov and Viktor Milchenko." Michael paused while the names of the men running Anatoly's old department of Investigation Directorate in St. Petersburg made clear the threat Michael was implying.

"These men will not listen to you. Your own country doesn't even acknowledge your existence," Anatoly was red with rage.

Michael ignored Anatoly and quite simply asked, "Did you know that Yakutsk is considered a resort area to people who live in certain parts of Siberia? Or does your government treat rogue agents a little more stringently these days?"

"You give me empty threats?" Anatoly knew he had to bring his anger under control. Westen couldn't possibly follow through and contact anyone who really mattered. Then again, the man should not have been able to get through the defences of the government building in St. Petersburg all those years ago either.

"You return Sam to me, and you'll never have to know just how far I can go," Michael said.

"So you get your buddy with all the connections back and I get what? A lunatic with a big mouth?"

"You would have Peter Brayson, or Pyotr Brabovich if you prefer. He's the only one to connect you to Tatiana Gouzenko. Without him, you're simply on a well deserved vacation in sunny Miami."

Anatoly thought about his options for a moment. He could make this work. He would still get Michael Westen in the cross-hairs. "I will call you with the time and place," Anatoly slammed the cell phone shut.

This wasn't how it was suppose to go. The Gouzenko woman was supposed to pay as well. He knew relying on the unstable Canadian was risky, but he thought that with the proper controls the man would have lasted a bit longer than this. In a burst of anger, Anatoly threw his cell phone across the kitchen. It slammed into a corner of the wooden cabinets and landed as several useless pieces on the tile floor.

Fyodor came barrelling into the kitchen, his gun drawn. When he saw no threat he looked questioningly at his boss.

"Go prepare the American for a move," Anatoly growled.

"Move?" Fyodor asked.

Anatoly slammed his hand onto the table top. "Yes, move! Now go do as I say!"

Fyodor nodded his head, turned and went back out the way he had come in; happy to be getting away from his temperamental boss.

* * *

><p>When Michael hung up from his call to Anatoly he saw fear in Peter Brayson's eyes.<p>

"Relax," Michael patted the man's cheek and smiled.

Far from relaxing, Peter began to squirm in his bindings, finding Michael's smile quite unreassuring. He looked about ready to hyperventilate through his taped gag.

"We're not handing you over to the Russians," Michael promised. Hoping to prevent the man from asphyxiating, he recommended, "Breathe through your nose." As the man started to calm some, Michael encouraged him, "That's a good boy."

"We're not handing him over?" Fiona asked. Again, Peter's eyes grew large and his breathing quickened as the fear began to retake it's hold on him.

"Fi," Michael warned.

"Oh, all right," Fiona didn't sound too happy about having her fun taken away, but she backed away from the bound man in the chair. She knew that Peter Brayson could be contained without being killed. Somewhere there was a mental facility with his name on it.

They were still in Peter's apartment. Michael made sure to pick up the manila packages Peter had received from Anatoly and his men. Each envelope held black and white pictures of Peter's and Tatiana's families from 1945-1975. The time line of Igor Gouzenko's defection until the time Peter's father committed suicide. The envelopes also contained several notes in Russian on how to find records using city hall computers, and words of encouragement for Peter to be strong and to justify his family name. All things that would help keep Peter safely tucked away in an institution getting the help he so desperately needed.

Michael tossed the cell phone Troshev had given Peter into the waste basket before grabbing Peter under the arm and pulling him up from the wooden chair. Fiona brought over a light coat and tucked it around his tied up hands.

Michael looked into Peter's eyes, "You can walk out of here…"

"Or we can shoot you, wrap you in a blanket and carry you out," Fiona finished. She smiled as she added, "Your choice."

Peter leaned away from Fiona. With his feet still tied, he was close to falling over in his attempt to distance himself from the crazy woman.

"You prefer to walk?" Michael asked. After a vigorous nod from Peter, Michael knelt down and cut the ropes around the man's ankles.

Fiona ripped the duct tape from Peter's lips. The man cringed with the pain, but kept all but the barest of whimpers to himself.

"You're a smart man after all," Fiona held onto Peter's elbow and led him to the apartment door. "You and I are going to walk straight out of the building and to our car. You will not stop to talk to any of your neighbours or Michael will have to start shooting."

Behind Peter, Michael rolled his eyes, causing Fiona to give him a hard glare. Peter was oblivious to the silent communication and nodded in agreement. He was still too terrified to speak.

It took a little manoeuvring on Fiona's part, to keep Peter close by her side without looking like she was keeping him close by her side. Peter kept his head down, worried that his fear would show and get him killed. It only took a few minutes to make it to the building's front entrance and a minute after that the threesome made it to the Charger, all without incident.

Peter had some difficulty getting in the back while his hands were tied. With a huff of impatience, Fiona tucked the man's head down and gave him a not-so-gentle shove. With an audible thud, he fell into his seat. Fiona acted as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening as she adjusted the front passenger seat for herself. Michael said nothing as he got in and began the trip back to his mother's house.

* * *

><p><em>When you're a spy and the contact you've been working with sees you as an immediate threat, if they believe their future is in jeopardy because of you; you have to know they will see their <em>_**only**__ option is to take you, and everyone attached to the mission, out._

In preparation for the exchange Michael and Fiona were in Madeline's garage padding a 'borrowed' 2005 Dodge Magnum with old phone books. The Magnum is a good choice to take to a prisoner exchange. It's powerful old-school Hemi V8 and rear wheel drive can make all the difference in a quick getaway. And It's low roof line and small windows are perfect for frustrating snipers. With phone books placed between the outer shell of the door and the inner panelling, you can give yourself a decent shelter from most bullets.

"Is all this necessary?" Tatiana asked, sounding quite worried. She had left the house to escape the crazy looks from Peter, and all the pictures hidden in envelopes. Madeline was left guarding the man with her loaded shotgun. She didn't seem to mind the duty.

Fiona was about to answer, but Michael was quicker, "Yes, Tatiana. It's necessary."

Tatiana still looked doubtful, "This will bring back your friend, Sam?"

This time Fiona was first, "This will make sure we have a safe place to put him, once we get him back."

Tatiana didn't look as if she understood, but she nodded her head anyway. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Michael frowned and was about to reply, but Fiona stood in front of him, blocking him. She pointed to workbench behind Tatiana. "You could bring me that Glock."

When Tatiana stepped away to fetch the gun, Fiona hissed over her shoulder, "She just wants to help, Michael."

Tatiana came back holding the semi-automatic between her thumb and finger as if it were radioactive. She very delicately handed it over to Fiona. "What is that attached on the side?" she asked

Fiona accepted the gun and expertly checked for a full magazine, but she did not chamber a round. She engaged the safety mechanism. Fiona smiled at Tatiana. "It's a magnet. A very strong magnet." She bent over and hid the weapon in the driver's side front wheel well.

"Won't it fall off while you're driving?" Tatiana asked. She looked even more stricken as she asked, "What if it goes off?"

Fiona put a friendly arm around Tatiana's shoulders. "Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine." Fiona didn't explain that they've done this before as she walked the older woman to the garage side door. "Why don't you check on Madeline? Make sure things are OK in the house."

Tatiana hesitated. She had already caused quite the scene when Peter was brought into the house. She wanted nothing more than to call the police and have him removed from her sight. Reluctantly, she nodded and started for the door. Before she left, she gave one more look around the garage. She shook her head, quite confused by what she saw and clearly didn't understand. Fiona closed the door behind her.

"Don't say anything, Michael," Fiona pointed a warning finger at Michael.

Michael knew better than to say 'I told you so', but he did give a toothy grin.

"You had better hope your mother doesn't notice you borrowed Sam's Glock from her purse," Fiona changed the subject.

"You had better hope Sam doesn't notice you've attached it to a magnet and stuck it under the front end of the car," Michael countered.

Fiona shrugged. "He should be grateful we bothered to come get him at all."

Michael watched as Fiona proceeded to go through the black bag she had brought to the loft just over two days ago. She pulled out and checked enough weaponry to stock a platoon of soldiers. No matter what she was said, she was preparing an all out war to get back the missing member of their team.


	8. Chapter 8

A great big thank you to everyone for sticking with me. I appreciate your time.

There isn't enough I can say about my beta, purdy's pal. The very least is a heartfelt 'thank you'. I'll leave you in charge of the stick and all it's sharpening equipment. I'm glad to count you amoung my fanfiction friends.

**A/N** - Some of you may already know, but this story came about as a bet with my husband - to write a Sam story that Sam isn't in. In order to win (which is being strongly debated at my house) I had to leave out some scenes. There's a part of me that wants to write out those scenes. My husband is about ready to bet that I am unable to leave poor Sam alone. However, I could just as easily be talked into letting sleeping dogs (or Sam, in this case) lie. I'm not sure I can keep up with that man's wit.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

After waiting through the afternoon and on into the evening, Michael's cell phone finally rang. Fiona, not known for her patience, practically leaped for the phone lying on Madeline's kitchen table. Michael's hand appeared in front of hers and snatched the phone before her fingers could curl around it. Even though Michael had been slightly further away, he knew he had to be the one to answer the call. Fiona had been fuming about Michael not learning from the Columbians and letting the Russians set the time and place for the exchange.

"Anatoly," Michael gave a friendly greeting, hiding his true feelings.

Apparently Anatoly wasn't able to fake the same mood. "Do you know the old lighthouse out near the state park?"

"Of course. You know it's private property. Are you sure the owner won't mind?" Michael asked.

"He won't mind. He's in Europe and not back until next week. We will do the exchange at 8:00 PM." The Russian hung up.

Michael checked his watch. "We have ninety minutes. He's timed it for sunset."

"That will both help and hinder us," Fiona noted. "Assuming their plans are much the same as ours."

"You know they are," Michael walked over to Peter sitting on the far side of the kitchen table. His hands were tied and he was gagged with a fresh piece of duct tape. Michael put one hand under his arm and pulled him up. "If you want to live to see tomorrow, you will do exactly as you are told."

Peter nodded warily. He really didn't have any choice. The best he could do was hope the woman he had threatened and stalked, and the people working for her, were people of honour.

"Be careful," Madeline warned the threesome as they went out the back door, heading for the garage.

Michael paused before closing the door. "We'll call as soon as we've got Sam," then the door closed and they were gone.

* * *

><p>As in a game of spinning tops, this battle would be won by the team that took out the other side first. Michael broke several speeding and driver safety laws getting to the lighthouse at the state park. He slowed considerably as he neared the meeting spot, not knowing if Anatoly had already arrived. Half a mile back he had let Fiona out into the surrounding wilderness, packing an arsenal to outfit an army. Michael always wondered how a petite woman could carry such a load, but Fiona did it with such grace and style, that a person would never be able to see the danger until it was too late.<p>

As Michael neared the lighthouse he saw the Buick LaCrosse he and Fiona had followed previously. It was turning around on the open beach to face incoming vehicles. So the Russians had gotten here first, but it didn't look like they had been beaten by much. Michael could only see one person in the front seat, Anatoly. The back of the vehicle was much harder to see into. From this distance he couldn't even be positive that it held Sam.

Michael stopped several hundred feet away, letting the Russian settle into a parking spot. He used these moments to text Fiona that the black SUV and the five bodyguards counted by the Columbian gunrunner, Marcus, were still out there somewhere.

Before Michael changed gears back into drive, he looked into the back seat of his vehicle.

"Remember, stay in the car and keep your head down."

Peter didn't need to be told again, but he nodded anyway, unable to respond with the tape across his mouth. He watched with eyes wide in fright as Michael drove closer to the red Buick. Michael stopped so that the front end of the Dodge Magnum was in line with the front end of the Buick LaCrosse, but several feet to the right. When the driver's exited their vehicles they would be standing directly in front of each other.

Each man was leery of the other, neither wanting to step out of the relative safety of their vehicles. Michael was the first to crack open the driver's door. He held his empty right hand in plain sight through the vehicle windows. Anatoly followed suit. Ever so slowly each man stepped from their cars, both staying behind their open door.

"To make this work, we are going to have to be able to see each other," Michael pointed out.

"You close your door first," the Russian offered.

"How about this," Michael countered, "We'll keep our right hand high so the other can see it, and slowly close the door with our left."

"On the count of three."

Each man counted in their own language. On three both car doors closed and the men stood facing each other without interference.

"I want to see Sam," Michael started the bargaining.

Anatoly smiled and stepped further to the side, providing room for Michael to pass. Cautiously Michael stepped forward. The Russian kept both hands in sight and clear of his pockets. When they were side by side, each man slowly turned so they'd be walking backwards to the rear door of the other's vehicle. Neither trusted his back to the other man.

Michael paused at the back door to the Buick. He watched Anatoly for any signs of treachery before looking down through the window. Even through the window tinting, he could tell that Sam was in bad shape. There was blood all down the side of his face and his undershirt showed streaks as well. Sam's head hung down and his face was hidden. Michael couldn't tell if he was even awake. His hands were tied together and sitting in his lap. The left one looking slightly odd, until Michael remembered Anatoly saying one wrist was broken.

Michael tried the door handle. It was locked, but the rattle caused Sam to turn his head. He gave a weak grin through split and swollen lips. Michael looked up to see Anatoly smiling at him.

Anatoly shrugged. "He was in a bad car accident. There was only so much I could do. Besides, he's a very annoying man."

Michael took a threatening step forward.

"Uh-un," Anatoly waggled a finger at Michael. A small device appeared in the Russian's hand. He must have pulled it from his pocket while Michael had been looking Sam over.

Anatoly explained the device, "Your friend is sitting on a nice little bomb. The child safety locks are engaged. You're not getting in and your friend isn't getting out. You will do as I tell you, or you will say 'so long' to Sam Axe. Actually from where you're standing, it wouldn't be a long good-bye. You'd be joining Mr. Axe in the after-world."

Michael seethed on the inside. "What do you want now?"

"The keys to your vehicle." Anatoly pointed the remote trigger at Michael, "Ever so slowly, if you don't mind."

Michael slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He tossed them far short of Anatoly's position. "Oops. Sorry about that."

If looks could kill, Anatoly would have put several daggers deep in Michael's chest. He took two steps forward and slowly began to crouch down, never taking his eyes off of Michael. He kept his left hand aloft, holding the remote, his thumb over the detonator switch. He quickly glanced down to locate the keys, but it was the split second Michael needed. He moved fast, his left foot connecting with the backside of Anatoly's hand. In reflex, Anatoly's fingers sprung open, and the device flew through the air landing somewhere in back of the Buick on the far side.

Even though Anatoly hadn't been active in many years, he had been trained by the GRU and his instincts were still there. Since his right hand had been down on the beach looking for keys, the Russian picked up a handful of sand and threw it into Michael's eyes.

With Michael temporarily blinded, Anatoly took advantage, and leading with his shoulder, he charged into Michael's midsection. They crashed into the Buick behind them, leaving Michael winded. Anatoly followed up with a hard blow to Michael's ribs. Michael could barely get a gasp of breath before there was a second hit to the same spot.

Anatoly took a step back to catch his breath. Michael fought back, kicking high into Anatoly's shoulder, spinning him down into the beach sand, a softer landing than Michael would have liked. He took two steps towards the front wheel of the borrowed Dodge Magnum but a bullet kicked up a spray of sand just inches from his feet, stopping him from reaching into the wheel well. A second bullet from a different angle sent Michael diving behind the front end of the Buick for cover. Somewhere in the greenery, Troshev's men were hiding, taking pot-shots. As there were only two shots, Michael hoped that meant Fiona had disabled some of the Russians.

Anatoly had recovered enough to crawl to the rear of the Buick; hoping to make it to the far side of the car where his men would cover him. Michael knew he couldn't let Anatoly make it that far. He jumped onto the Russian's back, earning himself an elbow to the ribs. Michael gave a rib shot back to Anatoly, stopping him from crawling further. Anatoly used his strength to turn over so that Michael would be on the bottom. Michael was grappling, trying to get his arms high enough on Anatoly to reach around the Russian's neck. Anatoly was using his elbows and feet to hit and kick Michael into submission.

Michael had his arm around Anatoly's shoulder and was almost able to reach around his neck, when more bullets started hitting the sand close to where he and the Anatoly were fighting. With a burst of energy, Michael turned toward the shots and shoved Anatoly off, making him scurry backwards to avoid the bullets.

Rolling to a crouch and running alongside the sedan, Michael headed back toward the Dodge, wanting to reach the Glock in the wheel well. He heard the Buick's windows shattering as a bullet went through. There was the tell tale ping, as bullets missed the windows and hit the hard metal of the vehicle. God, he hoped Sam was keeping his head down. He heard a commotion in the trees, then the sudden silence as the gunfire ceased.

Casting a quick look over his shoulder, and not seeing Anatoly, Michael rolled from his cover and stopped by the Dodge Magnum's front tire. Reaching, he was able to drag the weapon to a non metal surface where the magnet let go and the Glock came free. In a practised motion, he flicked the safety off and pulled the slide back, chambering a round. The sun had already progressed half way down the horizon. In the semi darkness Michael couldn't see any targets.

He had noticed the Buick rocking when he had made his dive for the gun, but it too was now still. Michael stayed crouched and quickly made his way back to the protected side of the sedan and settled into the sand, out of any sight lines through the windows.

"Sam," he called just above a whisper. With the windows out, Michael hoped Sam would hear him.

He got a none-too-reassuring, "mmmm," in return.

"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere, OK?" Michael hoped that Sam heard him and understood he also meant leaving on a grander scale. There was no reply.

Michael inched to the rear of the Buick and peeked around the bumper. He found Anatoly looking back at him from thirty yards away. Michael brought the Glock up, aimed squarely at Anatoly's chest. The Russian didn't seem overly concerned, in fact he smiled. He held out his hand, displaying the remote detonator to the bomb in the Buick.

"Looks like we both found something, Michael. Yes?" Anatoly asked. "Why don't you come out from there, so we can talk like men?"

"No thanks, Anatoly." Michael answered. "I can shoot you just fine from here."

Anatoly lost his good humour, "I said come out, Michael!" He paused, giving himself a moment to calm down. "Or I will blow the car; and you along with it."

"I'm not all that keen on being target practise for your men," Michael explained his hesitancy.

Anatoly laughed, "Do not worry. They will not shoot unless I tell them."

Not seeing any other options, Michael slowly stood up. He felt slightly encouraged by the lack of gunfire.

"Come, come, Michael," Anatoly waved Michael forward. "You can put your weapon down."

Michael looked into the trees, hoping to see a sign from Fiona. He saw only trees. Containing a sigh, Michael took several steps into the open, Sam's Glock held loosely in his right hand.

"That wasn't so hard, was it, Michael?" Anatoly asked. "I promised my men would not shoot. I've been waiting for this moment. I do not want you to die yet. There is something I want you to see first."

Michael could read Anatoly's intentions in his eyes. He was going to push the detonator switch and blow the car.

Michael yelled, "Noooo!"

Everything moved in slow motion for Michael. He brought the gun up, firing without aiming. Anatoly dove to the side and his thumb pushed the switch. A short burst of gunfire from within the nearby bushes kicked up a cloud of sand near Michael. Another burst followed less than a second later, but Michael couldn't see any evidence of it coming his way. Fiona was at work.

It seemed like minutes went by, but it was only a fraction of a second. There was a loud _whump_ as the bomb ignited and the fire ball filled the interior of the LaCrosse. The blow back of the explosion took out the rear window and knocked Michael into the sand. The heat wave passed over his head.

Michael looked over his shoulder, the Buick was engulfed in flames. He looked back to Anatoly. The man was writhing and moaning in the sand, his left hand holding his right shoulder, trying to staunch the blood flowing from a bullet wound. Michael slowly got to his feet and approached Anatoly. As if the Glock had a mind of its own, it was aimed at the center of Anatoly's forehead.

"You should know," Michael said without emotion, "Sam being alive was the only thing keeping me from killing you and everyone associated with you."

Anatoly's eyes widened with fear. He had been counting on his men taking Michael down as the car went up. There was no more shooting. His men had either left him or been taken out by that Glenanne woman. Anatoly turned his head, not wanting to see his end coming.

An urgent call from Fiona stopped Michael from fulfilling his threat.

"Michael! Hurry up! I need you."

Michael didn't drop his hand holding the gun, but looked over his shoulder trying to follow the sound of Fiona's voice. He could make out her shape huddled much too near the burning car.

Her next words sent Michael running, "It's Sam! Help me move him!"

Michael dropped beside his friend. A quiet moan proved Sam was still amongst the living. Grabbing him under the arms, Michael pulled Sam away from the fire. He let Sam's shoulders down gently once they reached the beginnings of grass and trees.

Fiona had run back to the Magnum to free Peter who was still tied up in the back seat. She had to go around and pull the cowering man out from the passenger side. She pulled a bowie knife from her boot and quickly sliced through the ropes on his ankles, then forced him to run with her to where Michael was sitting with Sam. Michael was slowly cutting through the ropes holding Sam's hands together. Thankfully he had already passed-out, he wasn't feeling the jostling of his broken bones.

"Where's Troshev?" Fiona asked.

Michael glanced down the beach to where he had left the wounded man.

"I'll go check on him," Fiona offered. She looked directly at Peter and told him, "You will wait right here and not move."

Peter's wide eyes were filled with the still-flaming wreckage beside the vehicle he had been hiding in. He looked down to the unconscious man lying half in the sand. He could see singe marks on the man's hair and guessed that wasn't sunburn turning the man's skin red. Peter stared up at Fiona in shock; he wasn't capable of further movement. Fiona reached down and patted his cheek. "Good boy."

Even walking on sand Fiona moved with grace. She found Troshev unconscious in the sand. His bullet wound wasn't fatal, but he was obviously beyond his pain threshold. Pulling a couple of cable ties from a pocket, Fiona trussed the Russian up like a Thanksgiving turkey. She left him where he was and returned to her friends.

"We're going to need an ambulance or three," she pointed out, settling down near Sam's head. "What are we going to tell them?"

Michael looked up from the bullet graze along Sam's leg. How he'd gotten shot there, Michael didn't know, but he had pulled off his own shirt and was using it to stem the bleeding.

Michael's gaze moved over to Peter. "Peter was stalking Tatiana Gouzenko. She hired Sam to put a stop to it. Sam found out the hard way that Peter was getting help from the Russians. They worked Sam over to shut him up."

"Sam's military record and discharge terms should be enough to cover him in the hospital," Fiona nodded. "What about us? We're not leaving him here with an anonymous call to 9-1-1?" She looked sickened by the thought.

"No," Michael was back to checking Sam over for further injury. "We were his back up. We got here too late to do more than prevent his murder. We're not leaving him."

Fiona nodded her approval and gave Michael a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. There was guilt written on his face because he knew he did very little in the actual prevention of Sam's death. Somehow, Sam had taken care of that himself.

She backed away to make a quiet call on her cell phone to 9-1-1. She didn't want Peter hearing her request for police as well as the ambulance.

* * *

><p>Twenty four hours later, the world was a different place, or so it seemed.<p>

Sam was lying in his hospital bed grumping about going home. "Do you know when the last time was that I had a cold one, Mikey?"

Michael had to admit he didn't, but he could guess it was before the ex-SEAL's trip to the docks several days ago.

"Alcohol and pain killers don't mix, Sam," Fiona pointed out, then smiled brightly, "If you tell me one of the side effects is coma, I'll be right back with a Coors."

Sam glared, but Fiona's grin only grew. Now things were back to normal, she felt better than she had in days.

It had taken some time with the police, but Tatiana stepped in with the proof of the threatening messages she had received and backed up Michael's and Fiona's story. Peter had babbled on somewhat incoherently, and after review from the police psychiatrist, was placed under arrest but was unlikely to face a trial. Everyone agreed that the man was mentally unhinged. After Anatoly Troshev and three out of five of his men received medical attention for their bullet wounds, government agents had shown up and taken them away. Chances were they would be deported and suffer the consequences of their actions back in Russia. A fate at least equal to what Michael had promised. It wasn't enough for Fiona though. She didn't seem appeased and it was this reaction that had made Sam smile the most, once he had heard the tale from Madeline after being settled into his hospital room and allowed visitors.

Sam tried to sit further up in his bed, but his broken arm didn't allow for ease of movement. Fiona stepped up and helped him settle in a more comfortable position.

"Thanks, Fi," Sam said gratefully.

Fiona shrugged, "I couldn't help it. It was like watching a beached sea animal."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "I bet you ate the heads off your Easter chocolates first, didn'tcha , Fi? Aren't you supposed to be nice to people in the hospital and say how much you missed 'em?" Sam asked curiously.

Fiona stepped back from Sam with a mixed look of revulsion and shock. "Why on earth would I do that?"

Sam closed his eyes and sighed. He turned back to Michael. "Hey Mikey, talking about people who do weird things, I think you may have to have a chat with your mom."

Michael raised his eyebrows, "Is she smoking near the oxygen again?"

Sam shook his head, but stopped when the room moved around him, "Ahh, no. I wish it were that simple. I think she's got that Nightingale Syndrome."

"What?" Michael laughed.

Sam cast a quick glance around the room with his eyes, holding onto the side of his hospital bed, grounding his world. He whispered conspiringly to his friends, not wanting anyone else to hear what he was about to share. "She's been bringing me all my comfort things from home. She even brought my favourite book, and those cookies I like so much from that little bakery down on tenth. It's making me nervous, Mikey."

Michael didn't know what to say, but Fiona began to fidget.

"I just remembered, I've got to go meet a friend about…something." She excused herself and made a hasty retreat from Sam's hospital room.

Michael looked even more confused when he noticed Sam hiding laughter, then it dawned on him.

"Fiona sent those things with my mom this morning."

Sam nodded, smiling as he lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes. "Maddy told me how sweet she thought it was."

"You know Fiona will break your other arm if she finds out you set her up," Michael warned, but couldn't hide a smile.

"Look, Mikey. You break me outta here and I'll leave your girlfriend alone," Sam pleaded.

Out of habit, Michael's instant reply was, "She's not my girlfriend."

"Whatever," Sam waved Michael's disclaimer away with his good arm. "Are you getting me out of here or not?"

Michael thought for a moment. "You seem to be having some dizzy spells and your pupils still aren't the same size. I'm pretty sure you're still suffering from concussion."

Before Sam could deny the accusation, the door to his room opened. An attractive older nurse peaked in. She smiled when she noticed her patient was awake.

"Hello Mr. Axe. I'm Rachael, you're nurse this evening." She greeted the man in the bed warmly. "I need to check your stitches and go over your chart."

When Sam had been encouraged to take a short walk earlier, he had checked his reflection in the washroom mirror. He knew he still looked red from the blast and his hair had that all-around singed look. Most of the swelling had gone down from being at the hands of the Russians, but there was the blue/black signs of having been on the losing end of an interrogation.

Sam put his right hand up to his hairline. The pain killers had taken away his headache and he'd forgotten he had several stitches hiding up there. There was also a line of stitches running up his calf where he'd been grazed by a bullet as he climbed into the front seat of the Buick so he could escape that death trap.

Still, Rachael smiled at him. When you've got it, you've got it. A smile took over Sam's face. "How often are you going to be checking on me tonight?"

Michael rolled his eyes, but Rachael seemed pleased with the question. "As often as is needed, Mr. Axe."

"Call me Sam," he invited.

Michael headed towards the door. "I'll see about springing you tomorrow, Sam."

"Not before…," he looked to Rachael, a brilliant smile on his face. "When's your shift over?" he asked.

She blushed, "I'm here until eight."

"I'll be here after that," Michael promised and closed the door behind him. He could hear Sam and Rachael flirting before the door clicked shut. He shook his head and smiled. Some things never change, he thought. The nurses at the call station smiled back at him as he passed. For right now, life was good.

**FINI**


End file.
